


after the party is done

by butterflysky



Series: help me piece it all together, darling [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Party, Avengers Tower, F/M, Memory Loss, References to past trauma, References to red room, Regaining Memories, characters beside nat and bucky are just mentioned, probably takes place post-infinity war but there's no specific references to anything beyond CACW, starts out angsty ends up really ridiculously fluffy, what even are tonal shifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 15:41:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14814191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflysky/pseuds/butterflysky
Summary: She sees him on her way to the door. He’s on the balcony, his back to her and the window and the party. He’s silhouetted against the lights of the city, a shadow again, elusive and dark and out of reach.(There's a party at Avengers Tower, and neither of them are in the right mindset to enjoy it. They go out together instead.)





	after the party is done

It’s a party, and _everyone_ loves a party, right? That’s what Tony tells her, anyway, as he brushes past her on his way to talk to Rhodey. Cheer up, he says. Enjoy yourself, let loose for one night. She wants to ask him if he’s going to follow his own advice, if he even believes what he’s saying, but he’s already gone into the crowd. She could follow, but she thinks that wouldn’t be _enjoying herself._

Natasha had woken up feeling lost in her own head, and the party isn’t helping. There are too many people, there are too many big, _big_ windows in Avengers tower, overlooking the city, there’s too much going on in her mind for her to _let loose._ She’d been thinking up her excuses as soon as she’d got the invitation, but she knew she couldn’t sit alone in her apartment for the night, in the dark with the blinds drawn, so she’d slipped into her favourite black dress and curled her hair and stared her reflection down in the mirror until she felt a bit more like herself. She isn’t sure how well it’s working, thinks it must not be working at all if she’s so visibly on edge that people are telling her to calm down (“Okay?” Clint had asked as soon as he saw her, and she’d arranged her face into a smile and said, “Yes.” He hadn’t looked like he believed her.) and now sitting in the dark in her apartment sounds kind of good. She puts her drink back on the bar and turns to go. Whatever, it happens. Sometimes her past won’t stay quiet. No need to get upset about it.

She sees him on her way to the door. He’s on the balcony, his back to her and the window and the party. He’s silhouetted against the lights of the city, a shadow again, elusive and dark and out of reach. He’s always been like that, she thinks, although _smoke_ might be the better analogy, because smoke hides fire and fire burns— whenever she’s gotten close enough to grasp him she’s found him slipping through her fingers, and it _hurts,_ and she thinks she should know better than to put her hands so close to the flames. He doesn’t remember her anymore, she knows — they made him forget her a long time ago, and even when she’d _pleaded_ with him to remember her in Odessa he hadn’t and he’d pulled the trigger anyway. She learnt from that, when she couldn’t find any trace of him afterwards — it’s why she hadn’t tried to get through to him again the next time she saw him. And the only other time she’d tried, it’d been a last ditch effort, and it still hadn’t worked. Sometimes she thought there’d been a flicker of confusion, of _recognition,_ on his face, but she knows it’s only the wishful kind of thought.

But now, something about the sharp line of his shoulders, the way it looks like he’s grasping the balcony railing tight enough to bend the metal, makes her turn away from the door. She doesn’t have to try anything tonight. She can just talk to him.

When she opens the door, he turns just enough to see who’s coming outside, then turns back to the city spread below him without a word. Her voice dries up in her throat.

“It’s busy in there, huh?” he says, quietly, and the tension in her shoulders starts to ease. She comes to stand beside him, close enough that she can feel his body heat but not so close they’re touching. _He doesn’t remember._

“Too busy,” she says, and he makes a wry sound of acknowledgement.

She wishes she could talk to him properly, tell him that, today, she’s woken up with the thought of blood on her hands and the walls of the Red Room locked around her, because he’d understand. He taught her some of the things that are haunting her now. But she can’t, she won’t, not while he doesn’t remember. It wouldn’t be fair.

He takes a breath like he’s going to speak, then lets it out in a long exhale. She doesn’t fill the silence, and then he says, “It’s…I don’t feel like partying.”

“Me neither,” Natasha says. She puts her hands on the railing next to his. With the door shut behind them, the party is so muted she can almost ignore it.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” he says. His fingers clench and unclench on the railing.

“Me neither.”

“Too many ghosts.” He turns his head to look at her. His expression is open, _gentle._ He’s reaching out to her.

“I know how that feels,” she says. She hesitates. “We don’t have to stay.”

“No,” he agrees. He turns to look over his shoulder at the party, and Natasha follows his eye line to where Sam and Steve are leaning against the bar. They look relaxed, chatting, smiling, happy.

“You don’t want to worry them,” she guesses. His mouth tightens at the corners, and he turns his back on them again.

“They’d understand if I left,” he says.

Of course they would, just like Clint would understand if she left. They have good friends. They’re lucky like that.

“It’s weird,” he says, suddenly, a bit louder than before. “The city’s changed so much, but I still recognise it.”

She looks over the lights below them. They feel miles away to her, unreal, like the buildings would dissolve at her touch.

“Steve told me the thing that he found hardest to get used to was Times Square,” he says, his eyes far away. “How bright it is now. I don’t know why, because I remember it being bright back then, too.” He looks at her. “My memories…they’re kind of patchy, but they’re there.”

She doesn’t let herself see that as anything more than it is. “I like the quiet parts of the city best. I have…” she stops, smiles a bit, then says, “I have a favourite bench, actually. Where I go to read, or just to think. Nobody knows about it.”

“Except me, now,” he says, and he’s smiling, too. “I go on a lot of walks. That’s my quiet time.”

_Let’s go now,_ she wants to say, but then he says it for her.

“Come on, we’re not having any fun here,” he says, and holds the door open for her.

 

 

“So, I have a question,” Natasha says, when they’ve escaped the party together. It was an easy escape — they stood side by side in the elevator down to the ground floor, and she watched his reflection in the mirror while he pretended not to notice. 

“Go ahead,” he says. He’s wearing a long sleeved coat to cover his arm, but Natasha still catches the silver flash of his fingers out the corner of her eye when the streetlights reflect off them. They’re walking somewhere, she’s not really sure where, but the cold air is clearing her head so she wants to walk and walk and walk.

“Weirdest thing about the future,” she says. “Go.”

He laughs. “That isn’t a question.”

“I said _go,_ Barnes.” _James._

“Okay,” he says, and his face screws up a bit as he thinks. “Probably…microwaves.”

“ _Microwaves?_ ” she says, and laughs. “Weren’t they invented in the 40s?”

He shakes his head emphatically and says, “Yeah, but I never saw one.” He shrugs. “I just think they’re weird. But useful, I guess.”

“Very useful,” she agrees. “Okay, next question.”

“I didn’t agree to two,” he says, and smiles at her again. “But I’ll allow it.”

She looks forwards and says, “Favourite thing about the future.”

“Cell phones,” he says, immediately.

“Least favourite?”

He purses his lips. “Loaded question.”

“Sorry,” she says. “But you gotta answer.”

He hums. “Probably…how much of everything there is. How do I know what shampoo I’m supposed to get?”

“Whichever smells nicest,” Natasha says. “It’s that simple, Barnes.”

“I suppose,” he says. He looks over at her again. “Feeling better?”

She holds his eyes. “Yes. Are you?”

He’s got a soft smile on his face. “Yeah.” He looks away, around himself, and says, “Where are we going?”

“I was following you,” she says, and laughs when he looks confused. “Come on, let’s go…get ice cream, or something. Bubble tea.”

“Bubble tea,” he repeats. “What the hell is that?”

“I’ll show you,” she says, and, without really thinking, holds her hand out. “Come on.”

He takes it with his metal hand. “Lead the way.”

 

 

She orders for him, and he looks so perplexed when he takes the cup from her and sees the _bubble_ part of bubble tea that she can’t stop laughing. Her eyes feel wet by the time she’s done — she thinks it’s an overflow of emotion, all the feelings swirling in her chest coming out as laughter. It’s better than the alternative.

“Am I supposed to eat these?” he asks, and she starts laughing again.

“Yes,” she says.

“This is so weird,” he mutters, but drinks it anyway. They’re sitting in the back corner of the store — the cashier definitely recognised them, but pretended like she didn’t, and Natasha appreciates that. Neither of them have their usual half-disguises on them — she hasn’t got her sunglasses or hoody, he hasn’t got his baseball cap - but it doesn’t seem to matter. They’re still dressed for a party, too, and she wants to laugh again when she thinks how they must look, tucked away in the corner of the store dressed to the nines. It’s so _different_ to all her memories of him that it makes her chest feel strange. _Bittersweet,_ she thinks. That’s what this is.

“I like this,” he announces, when he’s finished his drink. “There’s another thing confusing me about the future — _coffee._ There are so many types now.”

“I’ll help you with your coffee, Barnes,” Natasha says. “Next time you want one call me on your newfangled cell phone.”

His mouth drops open, then he laughs. “Sure, sure, I will.” He eyes her half-empty cup, and she pushes it toward him. He takes it with a murmured _thanks_ and drinks, eyes on the menu fixed above the counter, then on the window, then on the TV screen showing the news. For once, the news isn’t about them.

“I have another question,” Natasha says, and he nods, straw still in his mouth. “How are you? Really. Not the answer you’d give Steve.”

He looks down at his cup, finishes the last dregs, then puts it down on the table. “Loaded question,” he says, with a little wry smile.

“You don’t have to answer,” she says, self-conscious, suddenly. As far as he’s concerned, they barely know each other.

“I’m…it’s weird,” he says. “Everything’s weird, not just the microwaves. And I…I remember everything I did, and I _know_ that I didn’t—that I didn’t choose to do any of it, but it was still my hands. It was me, but it wasn’t me. I don’t know what to do with that.”

Natasha wishes she still had something left to drink, because she needs time to think. 

“You don’t have to answer,” he says, very quietly.

“No,” she says. “The way I see it — that’s what you _did,_ but what are you going to _do?_ The past wasn’t yours but the future is.”

He looks at her, looking faintly surprised, then says, “Thank you. I—thank you.”

She takes her cup back. “You’ve got a bubble left.”

“You have it,” he says, and she does.

 

 

They go back out onto the street, into the cold, and James — Bucky, Barnes, whatever she should call him now — sees her cross her arms and says, slowly, uncertainly, “Do you want my coat?”

She gives him a look. “I’m Russian.”

He grins at her. “How could I forget.”

She’s not sure if it’s a joke or just a bad choice of words, but it twists at her heart all the same. Natasha smiles back at him anyway.

“Now where?” he asks. “I’m still following you, Romanoff.”

She pulls a mock-thoughtful face. “Well there’s this big party in Avengers tower, I think I could get us in…”

He tips his head back and laughs. She hardly ever saw him laugh like that, back then. “I was thinking something more low-key, if you’ve got ideas.”

“I’ve got plenty,” she says. “I told you I know the quiet places, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he says, and looks at her fondly. _Familiarly._

Her breath catches. “Come on.”

 

 

She takes him to her favourite diner, where the owner knows her order and acts like her semi-regular visits are the best thing to happen to him all day. It’s nearing midnight but he makes her pancakes and a strawberry milkshake anyway, and James hesitantly asks for a chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream. 

“You’re not hungry?” she asks.

“Pancakes with two forks,” he calls after the owner, and Natasha scowls at him.

“Not cool, Barnes,” she says, and takes him to her usual table at the back.

“Okay, now I get to ask you some questions,” he says.

“I’m a closed book,” she says. “You’ll get nothing from me.”

He rests his chin in his hand and smiles at her. “Favourite movie.”

“Oh, easy,” she scoffs. “Mulan.”

“You know, I still haven’t seen it,” he says.

“I’ll fix that. Movie night tomorrow?”

“Why not,” he says. “I don’t think I have anything planned, unless there’s another party I don’t know about.”

“God I hope not,” Natasha says, and then they both start laughing.

He asks her some more questions — all simple, _normal_ things like her favourite food, her favourite book, her favourite TV programme. She wants to ask him the same, but she’s already used up her questions for the night. But then, apparently, there’s always tomorrow.

When their milkshakes and pancakes come, Natasha splits the pile of pancakes precisely in half, much to James’ amusement, and then drinks her milkshake in a few gulps.

“I’ve never had better milkshakes than the ones here,” Natasha says, reverently.

“You know what?” he says, finishing his off. “Me neither.”

He has chocolate milkshake on his mouth. The Winter Soldier is sitting across from her, and he has chocolate smudged on his lips, and he’s smiling at her, and her heart is beating faster.

“Want to stay out?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

 

  


She takes him to her bench. 

She isn’t really thinking about it, doesn’t really make the decision, but she realises where she’s leading him while there’s still time to change her mind, but she doesn’t and she keeps going. If there’s anyone she doesn’t mind — _wants_ — to know about her hideaway, it’s him. He doesn’t remember, he doesn’t remember, but maybe someday he will, and he’ll want to find her — or he won’t and he’ll want to find her. It doesn’t matter.

When she moves the tree branches aside and points him through, he stops.

“Your bench,” he says, like he understands. “It’s peaceful here.”

“It is,” she says. “This is where I go when I don’t want to be found.”

He puts his fingers on the wood, then sits down. “I can see why.”

She sits next to him. There’s a view of stars and the moon and some buildings all lit up, and it’s like the balcony again but not quite. It’s better.

He takes a breath. “I said my memories are patchy.”

“You did,” Natasha says. She doesn’t let herself hope.

“But there,” he says. She can feel him looking at her, but she doesn’t turn her head. “And I…” he stops, and then, so quietly she thinks she’s misheard him, at first, says, “Natalia?”

Her breath catches again. “Yeah. Yes.”

“I remember,” he says, and she reaches across and takes his hand. The metal is cold under her fingers — it’s a different arm now than the one he had back then, but it still feels the same.

He squeezes, gently, very gently. “It took me a little while,” he says, still quiet, soft. “Sorry.”

She wants to laugh — she’s laughed a lot tonight. “It’s fine. I forgive you.”

She feels his own laughter as a puff of air against her cheek and turns her head. Moving very slowly, he reaches up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. It’s disgustingly romantic, she thinks, but she doesn’t really care.

“So,” she says. “Movie night tomorrow. My place at 8.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says, and squeezes her hand again. "We've got some catching up to do."

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read anywhere near enough comics to write this so sorry if this was really ooc or inaccurate or anything aah I just really love them 
> 
> title from Ferrari by Bebe Rexha which was kind of the inspiration for this whole fic  
> series title from Quarter Past Midnight by Bastille


End file.
